Soldier of Fortune Chapter Eight: The Final Test
by Johnmightyarmadillo
Summary: Baker Team wonders who will be the first to undergo the dreaded test of their abilities, while the platoon back in 1969 receives new members and John faces the pressures of command and inspection.


Chapter Eight

Early 1969 saw John Armadillo receive his promotion to sergeant, given command of his platoon. As he walked out of the officer's tent, he was met by Ray, Espio, and Cody, the later sitting in a wheelchair while he recovered.

"Johnny, congrats, man. Seeing as how most CO's are dinky dow these days,, its good to see a regular guy like you make it up there." Cody was smiling broadly, having returned from his sick leave to the camp, not fully healed. Ray chuckled slightly, tossing John a beer can.

"Another shipment of care packages came in, some lucky bastard got two whole cases of beer, decided to share it with the group. Figured you deserve a break after all that paperwork and interviews and whatnot, eh Sarge?" Ray laughed at the term, John managing a chuckle himself.

"Well, it has been a draining few weeks, waiting for it to go through, being called up for interviews and questions… What the hell, why not? I heard we got some new men in today, what say we go meet them, show them around the camp?"

"Sounds good to me, sergeant Armadillo", Cody said with a smirk. Opening the beer can, John took a swig, walking off with the trio towards their tent. It was as Ray described, several men were laughing and drinking, the cases having been immediately ravaged. The new men were off to the back of the tent, receiving a few glares from the other soldiers, as they were replacing those killed during the battle of Hue. John trudged through the beer cans and equipment strewn about the floor of the tent, making his way to the new recruits.

"So, you all are the new guys?". One spoke up, sounding more then a little timid.

"Y-yes, sir. Just arrived on the chopper, s-sir. I… How long before we… Before we ship out for combat, sir?" John sat on an empty bunk, thinking for a minute.

"I'm not too sure, I only just made sergeant. I'd imagine we're heading out sometime next month, but its hard to tell these days. From what I heard, the troops over at Da Nang were just attacked during the Tet ceasefire. Considering that, its hard to say when we'll see combat, as the gooks might pull another surprise attack. For now, we're here until next month, when we ship out to aid troops near Saigon. For now, I'll let some of my men show you around camp. I have to attend to some things, so just look for Ray, Espio and Cody. Ask around, though it's pretty easy to find Cody. Rabbit, white fur, brown eyes, currently in a wheelchair. Don't let it fool you though, he's a damn good fighter." He stood up and walked off, heading to the latrines. Once inside, he closed the door to his stall, and sat, rubbing his face. He was only just now realizing what being sergeant meant. He hand;t thought much of taking control during Hue, he was just trying to keep Ray and the others safe. By that point, most of the platoon had already been taken out. Now, he had an entire platoon to command, thirty men, all looking to him for support and guidance in the hell they now inhabited. He not only had to juggle their lives, but his life, the lives of his friends, and his responsibility to their families. Suppose he failed and let half of them be killed by a machine gun nest. Suppose they find themselves trapped by a tank again, what then? Fight it off like he did in Hue? And risk the deaths of so many men? Flee, and pray only a few men are killed by the tank as it pursues them? What if they're captured? Would he try and save them all, or just those he could? Which ones COULD he save? What if he escaped alone, would he try and rescue them, or save his own life and pray he can reach help? Endless questions and dilemmas flew through his mind at a rapid pace, so many ways in which he could fail, face a court martial, be discharged, be killed, let down his friends, his country, his platoon, his army, his-. He couldn't take it anymore. He stood above the toilet and retched, his nerves forcing him to regurgitate the contents of his stomach, and even when there was nothing left to regurgitate, his nerves kept forcing him to dry heave, until his throat hurt badly. It took him several minutes to pull himself together and stop heaving. Once he was finished, he wiped his mouth with some toilet paper, flushing and walking out quietly. He was hungry now, but dared not eat, lest his nerves force him to retch once more. More and more scenarios flew through his mind, each more deadly or terrible then the last. He hurried to his bunk, laying down to was nearing his nineteenth birthday. Nineteen years old. Nineteen years old and he was in charge of the lives of an entire platoon, whose success and failure rested solely with him. He wanted to retch once more, but had nothing left. He managed to slip off into a short, fitful nap, filled with even more dreams and nightmares then his awake mind had first conjured.

Ray, Espio, and Cody led the new troops around the camp, passing the radio tower. The four mobians had introduced themselves as Henrikson, Plissken, and Krueger. Henrikson was a short, but relatively muscular cheetah with a five o'clock shadow. Plissken was a standard height mobian raccoon, his build not as muscular as Henrikson's. He had a scar on his hand, which he claimed he received at his job as a short order cook back home. Krueger on the other hand, was tall, about six-foot-four, and was clean shaven. If he were an Overlander, he would be considered to be "black". He seemed disinterested is the general goings on of the camp, looking around quietly.

"Anyway, that's about it. Not much, I know. There's a village over to the north, sometimes you can head over there during off time, there's a few places that cater to soldiers like us. Mostly brothels, but there's an odd bar here and there. Not much of a selection, though."

"How's the food?", Henrikson asked, watching as another chopper landed on the helipad.

"Well, let me put it this way: The villagers probably have it better then we do. They at least get real food, even if we have meat and bread."

"If we've got meat and bread, how do they have real food?"

"Its an exaggeration, for fuck's sake. Look, the food tastes shitty half the time, unless we get the one or two ration kits that are actually filling. Problem is, those are few and far between."

"Look, don't listen to Cody. He's a bit cynical these days, seeing as he got to eat like a king during sick leave", Ray said, earning him a chuckle from Henrikson.

"Hey, what can I say? My old ma', she sure knows how to make some good food. Either way, we'd better head back to the tent, before all the beer's gone."

"Wait, you're what, eighteen, nineteen? How come you're drinking?", asked Plissken.

"Well, I don't drink that much, but… We've all seen things here. Any chance to relax, to feel alive… It's something welcomed around here, as you'll find out". After he finished speaking, Ray led the way back to the tent, leaving Plissken, Krueger and Henrikson to follow slowly, confused to see someone so young express something like that. Ray seemed quiet as the walked back, and Espio walked up to him.

"Still not over Charmy and Vector?", he asked, as Ray turned to look at him. His face revealed that he was holding back tears, as he wiped one away quickly, before turning back towards the tent.

"Are you?", was all he said as he led the small group towards the tent.

John lay in his bunk, his nerves still keeping him awake, his nausea subsiding. He wanted to light a cigarette, to let the smoke calm him, but he was wary of upsetting his stomach again. It was late afternoon by this time, only a few hours before sundown. Most of the platoon was either at the mess hall, or sleeping themselves, having drank too much. John held his hands over his head, wishing night would fall so he could at least rest easier. As he was thinking this, an officer made his way into the tent, standing over his bunk.

"Sergeant Armadilo, correct?" His voice startled John, who sat up quickly, his eyes darting to the lieutenant's insignia on the officers uniform.

"Uh, sir yes, sir, I'm sergeant Armadillo, sir."

"Ah, good. I see your men are in a… Less then satisfactory state as of right now. I see about half the men under your command. Tell me, where are the others? Hopefully not in a drunken stupor like these…"

"Sir, most are at the mess hall, and one group is showing the new recruits around. As for these men, one received a large amount of beer in a care package and decided to share it with the men. I was in the officers tent at the time, receiving my rank, sir. I was unaware of what had occurred, and by the time I returned, they were almost finished." He eyed the lieutenant carefully, trying to read his expression.

"Very well sergeant, just be mor mindful in the future. We have standards to uphold, as you well know. Our men must be ready to fight, not pass out like drunken fools when the order to move out arrives. You may let your men go off to the brothels and bars, but be mindful of how long they are there. I have been ordered to oversee your platoon as a test of your skills as a leader, and uphold you to the standards of the Mobian armed forces. My name is Lieutenant Maxwell, and I hope for your sake that you are able to gain control of your men. I'll see you around, sergeant. In the meantime, I suggest you call your men together and make clear to them what I have told you. Dismissed." Lieutenant Maxwell watched as John saluted, nodding as he left the tent, making notes on a small notepad. Once he was gone, John fell back against his bunk, groaning. His worries compounded, he let out a deep sigh, only to be startled by the arrival of Ray and the others. Ray said nothing, walking to his bunk and laying down, turning so he faced away from the rest. John was about to stand and head over, but Espio stopped him. His glance told him that he needed time. Laying back down, he looked up again when Henrikson approached.

"Sir, I was wondering… How long have you four been here?" John looked at him, the heavy bags under his eyes in contrast to the well rested eyes of Henrikson.

"About ten months now." He gave no other reply, and Henrikson walked off to his bunk. Ray was snoring now, having fallen asleep. Espio took off his boots, as he sat on his bunk, looking over at John.

"Let him be for now, John. We're all still shaken by what happened to them, even if it's been a while."

"I know… I've got more then that on my plate right now, though. This lieutenant decided to keep an eye on me now that I'm platoon leader, and began riding my ass about how the men were drinking today. So, now I've got to juggle that with all the stress of having to lead thirty men into battle." Espio merely nodded thoughtfully, as he lay back. Cody had wheeled himself to his bunk, climbing out of the wheelchair carefully, folding it an deplaning it under his bed. The rest of the platoon was either in bed, or still out drinking, maybe in the village. Soon, nearly all of them were asleep, save John himself. He stood and walked out of the tent, walking around the camp. The early evening air was still, the light from the sun a faint orange mist as it set slowly. His stomach had calmed down considerably, so he lit a cigarette, pocketing his lighter and taking a long drag on it. He stopped by the supply tent, leaning against a crate. He looked around the camp, seeing the dying activity of the day, the radio operator walking out of the radio room, being replaced with another operator as he walked to one of the troop tents. The medical tent was one of the few areas still bustling, stretchers of wounded men being rushed into the tent, medics calling for more supplies. The officer's tent projected a glow from an electric light, silhouettes of officers talking quietly, discussing plans, troop movements, developments home and abroad. Jeeps and trucks still came through the main gate, but at a slowed rate. A scout helicopter was taking off, several men hopping aboard as it lifted off the helipad and rose several feet into the air. Once it was at a safe height, it took off in the direction of its search pattern, flying farther and farther away until the sound of the blades could not be heard. John took another deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling a breath of smoke. As he put it to his lips again,a voice came from behind him.

"Got a spare cig, sergeant?" John turned, greeted by the sight of Lieutenant Maxwell.

"Sure, here", John said as he quickly pulled a cigarette out of his pack, handing it to Maxwell.

"You have a light as well?" John pulled his lighter from his pocket, and lit Maxwell's cigarette.

"Thanks, sergeant. You know, most people in this company think I come off as a hard ass, and I don't blame them. But you know, I'm jus doing my duty, same as the rest of you. This war may be different then anything we've ever faced in the past, but if I can help to uphold the integrity and standards of the army, I feel I'll have at least done something worthwhile. We all must do what we can to serve the king, and I'm confident General Prower knows what he's doing. Hmh, and don't think my telling you this makes us friends. I still have to watch you and make sure you're the right man for the job, so don't expect any leniency from me, sergeant, especially seeing as you never graduated from high school. Oh yes, I know, it's in your file, but don't worry. Not many of our men finished high school, much less college. I'll see you around, sergeant Armadillo. As for now, I'm needed in the officer's tent, and you should probably get some rest. A leader needs his sleep, after all." Without so much as another word, Maxwell departed, still smoking the cigarette John had gave him. John stood there for a few minutes, smoking quietly, before he tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. He walked back to the tent, and found his bunk. He reached underneath, grabbing one of the tins he had received in the care package. He opened it and grabbed a piece of toffee, closing the tin and placing it back underneath the bunk. He ate it quickly, still hungry from his earlier sickness. It was slightly stale, but it was still a luxury. He had made sure to conserve his care package treats, knowing how hard to come sweats were. He lay back, staring at the roof of the tent as he thought about what Maxwell had said. He was riding his ass, but he at least had a reason. It was a flawed reason, though. He'd seen enough combat to know that standards and integrity didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was learning how to better fight the enemy, on their own ground. They knew the jungle better then they did, that's how they were able to pin them down during that recon those few months ago. They blended in with the trees, they knew the secret routes through the thick vegetation. The war would be lost if they could not adapt quickly, and people like Maxwell stood in the way of that. If he had his way, the war would be lost, and the men who died would have died for nothing. John may have still been nervous, but he at least had something to stride for now, some sort of purpose. Winning, meeting the enemy on their own ground, and protecting Ray and Espio. He fell asleep soon after.

1971, Fort Bragg, Green Beret training grounds. John was sitting behind the controls of a helicopter, as his instructor guided him through take off again.

"Check your yaw angle indicator, be sure to keep an eye on your h over g gauge, and watch your fuel tank." John was sweating nervously, as it was his third time up, and now they were going to do a test flight around the base. Once he was airborne he slowly moved the throttle forward, flying in the direction of the main compound slowly. Once he had made it to the main compound, he gently turned and began the loop back to the helipad. The instructor nodded as he pulled back on the throttle as they approached the helipad, guiding him through landing again. He set it down slowly, flipping off the fuel switch and stopping the motor, waiting for the blades to slow to a stop. He unbuckled his seat belt, and climbed out of the cockpit, breathing a deep breath of relief. His instructor was making notes, walking over to him as he finished.

"Excellent work, John. You've improved quite a bit since our last flight, and i'm glad to see you making such progress. Now, head to the tanks for your next class, I have to take Messner on his next test flight." John saluted quickly, running off to the large open area used for tank practice. He had already had some experience driving tanks, but he was finding it hard to control them over more rough terrain. He arrived and saluted the instructor before climbing in to join Espio inside. Over a small radio, the instructors voice came through,

"Alright, today we're going to try something different. John, you will act as gunner for now, while Espio acts as driver. Once you have completed your assigned practice task, you will switch positions and complete another." Espio moved past John, the interior of the tank cramped and hot. Situating himself by the controls, Espio pulled on his headset, waiting for John to get into position at the gunner controls. Once they were both situated and had their headsets on, the instructor spoke over the headsets.

"Your first exercise will be to maneuver over to your target and destroy it with a single shot. You will head over the hill and aim at the first target we have erected, at which point John will fire. Once that is completed, you will switch and do a different exercise". Once he finished talking, Espio started up the tank, driving forward as he checked his instruments and view hole. John readied a shell, loading it into the barrel. Espio managed to make it over the hill, as he positioned the tank to the side.

"John, we're in position, aim and fire." John nodded, swiveling the barrel of the tank towards the target, relying on his instruments. Once he was in position, he fired, as the shell streaked down the hill and into the target, destroying it in a fiery explosion. The voice of the instructor flared over the radio,

"Good work, now switch and make your way to your next target. This one is located at the other end of the field, as you will have to drive across a field of rocks to reach the proper range to neutralize it." John moved slowly to his new station, pressing himself against the side of the tank as Espio passed him. He sat down in the seat by the controls and pulled on the headset, buckling himself in. Espio did the same in his station, as John drove the tank forward, entering the rocky field slowly. He moved the tank forward gently, so as not to tip it on the jutting stones that formed the field. After a few minutes, he was within firing range, giving the signal to Espio to aim the barrel at the target. Once Espio had aimed, he gave the command to fire, and another explosion eliminated the target as it had the first one. The instructor came in over John's headset, as he prepared to take the tank back.

"Good job, both of you. Once the tank is safely returned, hop out and head to language classes." John drove slowly across the rocks again, praying the rough terrain didn't upset the tank. When they were safely back at the vehicle depot, John opened the hatch of the tank, climbing out and gasping, the cool afternoon air a welcome relief after the cramped, hot conditions of the tank. He climbed out, as did Espio a moment later, Espio also breathing in the cool air. After they hopped out, the instructor went to meet Danforth and Ortega for their training exercise. John wiped the sweat from his forehead as he made his way to the main building with Espio, panting slightly. Once inside the air-conditioned building, they made their way to the classroom where they were to continue their Vietnamese lessons, though, it was over many hundred years since the region had been called Vietnam and the language was now known as Dragon Kingdomese. They sat down with a few other members of Baker Team and other special forces squads as the class began.

Two months later, Baker Team was assembled before Colonel Campbell as he read the notes made by their instructors.

"Very well. You all have performed satisfactorily in your vehicle and language training, and for that you have my congratulations. Tomorrow, the highest scoring one of you will be the first to be dropped into a randomly selected wilderness near a military base. You will have a week to make your way to the base with only a knife and a canteen of water. You will each deploy within one day of each other. Dismissed." They saluted him as they made their way to the barracks. Once inside, John walked to the bathroom and washed his face, while Espio lay on his bunk and closed his eyes. Danforth climbed up into his bunk and began to undo the laces on his boots, as Krakhauer hung his uniform jacket on one of the hangers on the side of the bunk.

"So, anyone know who the highest-scoring one of is? I'm betting my money on you, Espio, seeing as you excelled at language skills and unarmed combat."

"Yes, but I am also not as skilled in demolitions and engineering as Messner is."

"True, hell, maybe it's me! What do you think, Delbert?" Krakhauer thought for a second before he finished placing his boots underneath the bunk and lay down.

"John. He is by far the strongest of us, the most skilled in survival and weapons, and the only one of us to last very long against Espio in unarmed combat." Krakhauer didn't say anything else as he pulled his blanket over him, turning to face the wall. Danforth sighed, shaking his head.

"Well, I suppose we'll find out tomorrow, though I think it might be Colletta, as he's skilled in most things, not all that specialized. Barry's good at field medicine, but I'm not sure if that makes him the best scoring out of us. Still, best get some rest while we wait to find out who it is." He kicked his boots off, earning a quiet curse from Krakhauer as one landed on him. Espio was sure to shove his boots under their bunk, as Danforth thanked him. John was still by the sink, brushing his teeth now. Ortega was using the latrine, while Barry was already asleep. John spat out the last of his toothpaste, rinsing his mouth clean with a glass of water before spitting that out as well. He pieced up his toiletries and packed them back up in the small bag he was issued. Walking to his bunk, he placed the bag in his footlocker before he climbed into his bunk and fell asleep staring at his uniform jacket hanging on the back of the bunk, the lieutenant insignia barely distinguishable in the pale moonlight that entered the windows of the barracks.

The next day, they were awoken early in the morning, much earlier then they normally were. At four AM they were startled awake by the sudden bright lights shined in each of their faces. Ordered to get up, they obeyed and dressed quickly, grabbing their uniform jackets and bandanas. Marched outside, they were brought to a halt before Colonel Campbell, a helicopter a hundred yards behind him landing on the helipad. Campbell stepped forward, a more friendly look on his face then usual. He walked down the line, eyeing each of them carefully. He then walked back to his position in front of them and spoke.

"I am pleased to announce the name of the highest scorning member of your squad, the one who will be the first to undergo the rigorous test that all of you will undertake. The highest scoring member of Baker Team is Lieutenant John Armadillo." The mask of composure maintained by the at ease members of Baker Team was quickly dropped, as each of them murmured amongst each other, congratulations and condolences being whispered to John, as he stepped forward and saluted, a nervous sweat running down his spine. Campbell placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling more broadly then John had even seen him smile.

"Let me be the first to congratulate you, John. As the highest scoring member of Baker Team, I know we can count on you to set a fine example for the others during this exercise. And, should you make it to your rendezvous point before the others after they are dropped to their areas, you just might be put in charge of the squad. Best of luck, son." Campbell removed his hand from John's shoulder and they saluted each other, almost as equals, John thought. Campbell stepped back and gestured to the waiting helicopter. As he stepped forward and climbed inside the helicopter, all of Baker Team and Colonel Campbell saluted him as the chopper took off. Watching as the base he'd known as home for nearly a year grew smaller and smaller, he turned and looked over the inside of the helicopter. There were no other soldiers inside, the pilot and gunner sitting in the cockpit. He hadn't had a cigarette in almost a year, so he didn't have a pack on him. He sat up and walked towards the cockpit, grabbing the walls to balance himself. Opening the door, he earned a quick glance from the pilot before he turned back to the controls. The gunner said,

"What is it, something wrong back there?"

"Got a smoke?", John replied, forcing back the tension he was feeling to make himself speak.

"Yeah, sure. Here you go", replied the gunner as he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and handing it to John. John nodded as he took it, walking back to his seat. He pulled out his lighter and flicked it. It took him a few flicks to get a decent flame, as he suspected the lighter was running low on fuel. Once he managed a small flame, he cupped his hands around it and brought it to the cigarette, held in his mouth. Taking a few quick puffs as he lit it to make sure it was lit, he removed his hands and closed the lighter, pocketing it. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette, bringing his right hand to his lips to grab it, holding it between his index and middle fingers, blowing out a small cloud of smoke. He held it in his fingers for a minute, savoring the flavor of it. He'd almost forgotten how much they calmed his nerves. He lifted it to his lips again and took a shorter puff, leaning back in his seat as he watched the landscape fly by through the window. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew that the weight on an entire military special forces unit was riding on him. If he, the highest scoring member of the team, failed in this vital exercise, he knew full well that the disbandment of the unit and a return to his former platoon was assured. So far, they weren't even an official unit, their only real uniforms the olive drab bandanas issued to them during the first few months. Most of the other special forces training units received uniforms, particularly the Green Berets, of which the unit was a part of. Campbell had told them that he was a different man then the other special forces instructors. He had once been head of the school, but had stepped down in favor of working on training men personally, John had heard once. He told them that they did not receive their berets until he felt they had earned them. The bandanas, he said, were more practical and they would keep them when they were sent into the field. All of this, the unit's future, their acknowledgment as Green Beret's, and his own, at this point, military career were resting on this. He was scared, but more then that, he was determined. He was excited, he WANTED to rise up to the challenge, to strike fast and strike hard. He had already learned a great deal about guerrilla warfare, and he was ready to put it to good use. The chopper was passing over a northern forest now, and he knew that the jump was approaching. He took one last, long drag on his cigarette before he put it out. The gunner walked out of the cockpit, handing him a parachute.

"Get ready to jump, sir. We're near the drop site, and we need to make the final check of your equipment." The gunner pulled a small pack from the cockpit, pulling a canteen out of it, handing it to John.

"One standard issue canteen, filled with fresh water." He reached in again and pulled out a sheathed knife.

"One standard issue combat knife, with a serrated edge on the back of the blade, as well as a survival compartment in the handle." He handed it to John, who was attaching the canteen to his belt. He took the knife and slipped the sheath onto its corresponding place on the combat belt.

"One box of strike-anywhere matches." John pocketed them quickly.

"And finally, one standard issue ration kit. That's all you are permitted to take with you on this exercise, now put on your parachute and get ready to jump. John nodded, slipping on the parachute and securing the straps around his body. Before he walked to the door of the helicopter, he turned to the gunner.

"Mind if I borrow a pack?" The gunner nodded and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, handing it over. John smiled, thanking him. The gunner waited for the pilot's signal, then he opened the side door, the wind rushing in as they flew over the dense forest. He said something to John, the sound of his voice drowned out by the noise of the blades and the wind. John was able to see him mouth the words.

"Three… Two…. One… Jump!" John did just that, leaping from the helicopter as it turned and headed back to Fort Bragg. John waited for a few seconds, then pulled the ripcord of his parachute. The chute opened, and he jerked up for a second before the chute caught him. He looked down at the vast, mountain wilderness below him. He could see in the distance, a small building, its faint lights visible against the early morning haze. He knew it was the base and it was his objective. He looked at it as he drifted down, trying to gauge the distance between himself and it. It faded from his sight as he entered the tree line, his chute getting caught in the branches of an oak. He looked down to see how high a fall it was. It was about twenty feet to the ground. Too much, he didn't want to risk a broken leg this early into the exercise. He spotted a nearby branch, thick and course. He could not tell how strong it was, but it was his only option. Moving carefully, he loosened the straps on his chute, grabbing the branch as he fully got out of it. Clinging to the branch with both arms, he then climbed on top to it, surveying the trees around him. He could travel far easier in the branches then he could on land, with less fear of wildlife in the high branches. He had seen the DC use the technique back during his first year in the war, and thought it best to learn it for future use. Judging the distance between himself and the next tree, he grabbed the parachute by the remains of the backpack, pulling the chute down to him until it stopped, caught fully by branches. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cords of rope that connected the pack to the chute and jumped from his branch, swinging across to the other tree. As he landed on the tree, he decided to climb up to the chute to cut loose come cord, thinking it might prove useful. Climbing up, he pulled as much of the chute towards him as he could, gathering the stands together before drawing his knife and slicing through their connection to the nylon parachute. He then cut them off from the pack, rolling them up into a tight coil, which he pulled over his arm so it hung like half of a vest. Once that was done, he looked ahead at the rest of the trees, planning his trek through the treetops as miles of branches and vegetation stared him in the face.


End file.
